


Of Love, Marriage, and Perambulators

by RandomlyAssigned



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Relationships, Children, F/M, Gen, Infant Death, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 15:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomlyAssigned/pseuds/RandomlyAssigned
Summary: A collection of one-shots following the extended Weasley family falling in love, getting married, and having children.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley, Audrey Weasley/Percy Weasley, Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Past Penelope Clearwater/Percy Weasley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72





	1. The Helmet and the Flower

July 25, 1995

Fleur Delacour needed to practice her English. She had graduated from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic with impressive grades – top of her class in Arithmancy and not far behind in Potions. She spoke French and German. She was a Triwizard Champion. She had a prestigious trainee offer with the London branch of Gringotts bank. And she needed to practice her English.

The newspaper – the Daily Prophet – seemed mostly worthless. Fleur had no problem reading English, or even writing it, but speaking was a whole other matter. Roger Davies hadn’t seemed to mind much, but then again Roger Davies was boring. Fleur’s flat mate, Agatha Ansbach from Amstetten in Austria, was some help, but her English wasn’t much better than Fleur’s.

“Eight sickles, please,” the slightly breathless shopkeeper said, handing over the small bag of potion ingredients. Fleur paid and started out into Diagon Alley to meet Agatha for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. It was Sunday, seasonably warm, and surprisingly un-rainy. Agatha was waiting at a booth just inside the dingy bar (was every eating establishment in Britain dingy?).

“Fleur, over here!” Agatha called. Edward Wilson, an Australian foreign trainee one year ahead of the two women, sat with her. Fleur sat down primly.

“Bonjour, Edward.”

“G’day, Fleur,” Edward responded, grinning. The difference between British English and Australian slang was small (at least smaller than the difference between French and English), but Edward seemed determined to hang on to the differences. It only endeared him to Agatha further.

“Fleur, Edward has had the most excellent idea,” Agatha said, “He is going to practice our English with us!”

Fleur raised an eyebrow. “Really?” she said.

“Oh ja, he has the whole idea planned out. A pen pal of his, Bill Veasley– ”

“Weasley, Agatha, Weasley.”

“Yes, Veasley, well that is why we need English practice. Veasley. Weasley. Bill. He has just come back to England from, where was it Edward?”

“Egypt.”

“Ja, Egypt, and he is bored. Most bored, Edward says.”

“His mother wants him home,” Edward cut in, “But Bill has been living in Egypt for a years now – went there back in 1990 as a trainee when they found that cemetery in Giza and just came off a year working on the Alexandria ruins. He came back to spend some more time with family, but, y’know, not _too_ much time.”

Bill Weasley. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

“So, what do you say, Fleur?” Edward asked with a smile.

* * *

January 12, 1996

“Miss Delacour.” The tall, redheaded man swung open the door dividing Gringotts from Diagon Alley and stepped aside with a nod.

“Monsieur Weasley,” she replied, returning a nod. Gringotts required formality, especially between a junior trainee and an experienced curse breaker.

“Are you looking forward to your weekend,” he asked solemnly.

“Oh yes,” replied Fleur, “I have a most excellent evening to look forward to tomorrow night.” She smiled up at him.

“Ah, well, I would not want to tire you out with too many social events.”

“Oh?”

“Only I thought I would invite you to dinner in London. There is a lovely Muggle restaurant just on the other side of the Leaky Cauldron.”

“I am sure I can make time in my schedule. After all, it does help me improve my English.”

Bill smiled at her. More and more of their weekends were going this way – dinner Friday, dinner Saturday, and perhaps a quick stop in for tea on Sunday if he had time before going to the Burrow. He’d moved back to Britain for family – to be near them as Voldemort rose, rather than on the other side of the Mediterranean – and for the Order. He had no illusions about immediately returning to Egypt or the dig at Alexandria. The first war had lasted over a decade – and that was just open hostilities. But it turned out that even the cold gray of London had a silver lining.

He offered Fleur his arm.

* * *

May 27, 1996

She was engaged.

She was _engaged_.

She was getting married.

She was nineteen years old.

That wasn’t very young, not by wizarding standards. Her own mother had been engaged at eighteen and married at nineteen.

There was a slight draft from the window, even in May. It was one o’clock in the morning and she was sitting on the sofa in Bill’s apartment (thankfully, he had no roommates) with a blanket pulled up around her and a silver-and-sapphire engagement ring glinting on her finger. Occasionally, a headlight from a muggle automobile on the street below would catch the ring and send gentle beams of light along the walls of the apartment.

“Would you like some tea?” Bill padded over to her in pyjama pants, shivering slightly, and picked a knit jumper off the floor.

“Non, merci.”

“Having second thoughts?” He slid onto the sofa next to her, stealing a bit of the blanket to go over his feet.

“Second thoughts?”

“Reconsidering.”

Fleur turned and snuggled against Bill. He was warm.

“No, no second thoughts.”

“Good. Do you like the ring?”

“The ring is beautiful.”

They sat in silence for a little while, listening to the automobiles roll by, even this late at night.

“I am nineteen,” Fleur said.

“Yes,” he responded, “Although probably you’ll be twenty by the wedding, unless you want to elope. That makes me feel like less of a cradle robber, not marrying a teenager.”

“Cradle robber?”

“Someone who preys on younger people romantically.”

“Oh…you are not a cradle robber.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Another pause.

“Do you want to elope?” Bill asked. Fleur thought for a moment.

“No,” she said, “I want a wedding. A proper wedding. Even in wartime.”

“Even in wartime,” Bill agreed quietly, “Not that the Ministry will admit it. So, when and where?”

“Hmmm, I do not want to talk about when and where. Not yet,” Fleur responded.

“What do you want to talk about then?” Bill asked.

Fleur snuggled closer. “What do you think about pink for the bridesmaids’ dresses?”

* * *

August 1, 1997

“Really, Molly, this construction is quite haphazard. You would think it was built on a pigsty! I am a hundred and seven and stairs are not good for my joints.” A loud voice clacked up towards the first floor landing at the Burrow. Ginny Weasley froze, hand on the doorknob of the small bathroom. She had been about to dash from the small bathroom to her room, which was now blessedly devoid of Phlegm – _Fleur _– who had relocated with her mother and younger sister to get ready in Percy’s bedroom one floor up. Ginny had thought the house was safe and briefly considered running out anyways – serve Muriel right – but giving her centenarian great-aunt a heart attack was probably not a good wedding present. Even for Phlegm. Fleur.

A door opened. Ginny hit her head (quietly) against the wall. Hermione.

“Hello, Molly, I heard –”

“Is this the muggleborn?” Muriel interrupted, “Hmph. Bad posture and skinny ankles.”

“This is _Hermione_, Aunt,” Molly said firmly, “She’s a dear friend of Ron and Harry’s.”

“Harry? Harry Potter! Will he be here? I assumed young Ronald was exaggerating.”

Muriel’s squawks and Molly’s just-a-little-too-calm replies faded away quickly, even for a woman of a hundred and seven. Ginny dashed across the landing and slammed the door behind her.

“What was that!” she heard Muriel exclaim. Hermione glanced at Ginny.

“Nice towel,” she said with a hint of sarcasm.

“I heard you met Great-Aunt Muriel. She’s a delight, isn’t she?” Ginny responded, “I can’t wait to hear what she says to Phlegm.”

Hermione and Ginny, once they were both dressed and ready, arrived in Percy’s room to find Muriel supervising how Fleur’s mother Apolline was arranging Muriel’s tiara in Fleur’s hair. Ten-year-old Gabrielle stood near the door, fingers out, trying to look unobtrusive. “She has mentioned the tiara is ‘goblin-made’ six times,” Gabrielle said in a whisper to the newcomers. Ginny held back a snort. Gabrielle reminded her of the twins.

“No, no, not like that. A little higher, my dear Apolline. It really needs to set the whole look off. Goblin-made, you know.” Gabrielle looked at Ginny and stuck out another finger.

“Aunt Muriel, maybe you’d like to go find your seat?” Molly interrupted. It had been a trying twenty-four hours already. Some gnomes had snuck back in overnight, there was the whole business of magically reinforcing a chair for Hagrid (Ginny thought it unlikely that he’d manage to sit in it on the first try anyways), Fred almost forgot to pick up the programs from the printer in Diagon Alley. And of course, Ginny had kissed Harry. Only to be interrupted by Ron.

“Well!” exclaimed Muriel indignantly, “I suppose that will just have to do! I am a hundred and seven you know. Only so much time for arranging tiaras.” Molly finally ushered Muriel out, followed by Hermione.

Apolline, Fleur, and Gabrielle were speaking softly in French. Fleur did look beautiful. There was a knock at the door, and Monsieur Delacour stepped through.

“Ma belle fille,” he said, tears in his eyes, and stepped over to Fleur.

“You look lovely, Ginevra,” Apolline said, gliding over, “It is almost time. Shall we go down?”

Apolline, Gabrielle, and Ginny walked down to the ground floor where Molly and Arthur were waiting.

“You look beautiful, Ginny,” her father said. The music began. “Let’s go get Bill married.”

* * *

September 1, 1998

“I want a baby,” Fleur whispered to Bill, standing on Platform 9 ¾ with steam billowing, watching Hermione and Ginny board the train. Harry and Ron looked wistful. The Aurors, standing guard, looked tense.

They’d whispered it back and forth over the past year, at chilly midnights interrupted by nightmares, overcast afternoons with the distant flashes of spellfire, sunny mornings with fleeing muggleborns huddled around the dining room table. The war could last for years. The war could never end.

“I know,” Bill responded quietly after the Hogwarts Express finally pulled away from the station. They apparated back to Shell Cottage. It had been a waystation during the war, after the Ministry had fallen. It wasn’t perfect. Bill had told the secret of the Fidelius to operatives and refugees and Order members. If he had died, the secret of Shell Cottage would no longer be safe. But he hadn’t. Fred had died. They had sent muggleborns to France, to Germany, to Greece. They had sent the Cattermoles to New York.

There had been no time for babies. No time for family. Fleur hadn’t seen her parents and sister since the wedding, even though Bill tried to send her to France. But she was a pureblood, even if she was a quarter-Veela and a Weasley. They needed the illegal portkeys for the muggleborns, and even then, she never would have left him.

* * *

September 12, 1999

They had tried for a year. Twelve months. 365 days. Nothing. They had been to midwife mediwitches, healers at St. Mungo’s, even gotten Fleur’s Triwizard Tournament medical records from Madam Pomfrey. The French fertility experts hypothesized that there was something about the interaction of Bill’s mild lycanthropy infection and Fleur’s Veela genes. There was no record of a Veela and a werewolf ever conceiving, though Bill was not a werewolf and Fleur was not a full Veela.

“Mrs. Weasley?” the mediwitch called. Fleur and Bill were waiting again at St. Mungo’s. Fleur was late (for the fourth time since they had started trying). “Right through here, room three, yes thank you Mrs. Weasley. You can wait here Mr. Weasley,” the kind older woman said. She had seen them a few times, rendering a negative verdict with each test. St. Mungo’s was old-fashioned, and Bill would have to stay outside until after the test.

“How are you feeling today, Mrs. Weasley?”

“Fine, thank you,” Fleur responded.

“Any symptoms? How many days late are you?”

“Three days, and no, just a touch of nausea.” Fleur had been nauseous every time she’d come in for the pregnancy detection charm, probably nerves. The mediwitch cast a few preliminary spells – weight, blood pressure, temperature.

“Are you ready for the pregnancy detection charm, Mrs. Weasley?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A swish, a jab, a ball of light. It bounced and turned lavender.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Weasley. You’re pregnant.”


	2. Silver Linings

May 3, 1998

Everything hurt. His whole body ached from where it had (presumably) fallen to the ground after Voldemort had hit him with the Killing Curse. Various cuts stung despite the healing salve Mrs. Weasley had slathered on every passerby. He had a dark bruise on his sternum, and his stomach hurt from hunger.

“You up?” Ron said quietly.

“Yes,” Harry replied. They wordlessly rolled out of their four poster beds. It could have been any other morning at Hogwarts. The curtains around the other three beds were closed, the occupants slumbering inside. All the fighters had stayed overnight. Harry and Ron walked down the spiral staircase to the Gryffindor common room. Charlie Weasley was asleep in a chair in front of the unlit fireplace. Ron and Harry sat down in nearby chairs.

“Where are the others?” Harry asked Ron.

“Other bedrooms in the tower,” Ron replied, “All of us are here, in Gryffindor.”

Charlie awoke with a start. “Hello,” he said gruffly, yawning.

“Morning, Charlie,” Ron replied.

“What time is it?” Charlie asked.

“Dunno.” Ron looked around for a clock. Seeing none, he asked, “Either of you know that charm Hermione does, the one with the time?”

Charlie pulled out his wand and cast, “_Tempus_. Eight twenty.”

That seemed to be the cue for the other Weasleys. Hermione and Ginny came walking down the girls’ staircase at the same time as the others came down the boys’ staircase. Mrs. Weasley hugged all of them in turn and said, “Right, breakfast. Then after we can…can discuss logistics,” she said, tears filling her eyes. No one had to ask what she meant by logistics.

“Ginny, wait,” Harry said, after they had all filed out of the portrait hole and started down to the Great Hall. He jerked his head towards a corridor – not the corridor where Fred had died. Charlie made to stop as well, but Ron nudged him with his shoulder to go forward.

“Hello,” Ginny said once her family was out of earshot.

“Hi,” said Harry. He tried to nervously run a hand through his hair, but the ends were too knotted, and his fingers got caught.

“Need a hairbrush?” Ginny asked.

“No,” said Harry, “I mean yes. Well, really I need a haircut. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I figured,” said Ginny. She didn’t seem angry, just tired and sad.

“I’m sorry about Fred,” Harry said.

“Thanks.” They stared at each other for a bit.

“Wow, this is stupid, terrible timing, I’m sorry, just forget it–“

“Harry,” Ginny interrupted, “Spit it out, please. I’m hungry.”

“I…I didn’t meet any Veela. You know, on the run,” he said, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“There’s a silver lining,” Ginny said. It seemed like her mouth was trying to smile, and she held out a hand to him.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, taking her hand, “A silver lining.”

* * *

November 7, 1998

“Harry! Ron! Over here!” Neville Longbottom called.

“Wotcher, Neville, where’s Hermione?” Ron asked, rubbing his hands together in the brisk Scotland air.

“I see how it is,” Neville responded, laughing, “She’s up in the stands. I’ll take you to her. Ginny’s already with the team, Harry.” Harry and Ron parted, Ron following Neville up towards the stands and Harry turning back down the path to the changing rooms, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ginny before the game.

“Demelza, mind your left side, especially when you’re trying to score. Vaisey likes to come out of nowhere,” Ginny’s voice drifted through the open door to the Gryffindor changing room, “And Natalie, try to relax. A relaxed seeker is better than a tense one. I think that’s all my notes. Let’s get out there!” Harry stuck his head around the doorway.

“May I have a moment, Captain?” he asked.

“Harry!” Ginny cried, and ran over to give him a quick kiss, “I love you, I’m thrilled you’re here, but I’ve got to go.”

“I know,” he said, returning the kiss, “Good luck!”

It was an excellent game. Gryffindor had a new keeper – Jack Sloper, of all people – as well as a new chaser and seeker. Both the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams were a year out of practice, as Snape had banned Quidditch outright. Vaisey, a returning Slytherin chaser, scored several goals against Sloper, but Natalie McDonald, the new seeker, managed to catch the snitch when it was fluttering near the Gryffindor goal hoops and Graham Pritchard, the Slytherin seeker, was at the other end of the pitch. The final score was 230-60. Ron, Hermione, and Harry met Ginny coming out of the Gryffindor changing rooms after the match.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, Miss Weasley. Do kindly remember that guests must depart within an hour of the game ending,” said Professor McGonagall, walking past them with a smile.

“You were wonderful,” Harry said to Ginny, wrapping an arm around her waist and bestowing a quick kiss on her nose. Ron was too excited about Gryffindor’s win and Hermione’s presence to care.

“Thanks,” said Ginny, “Would you like to take a quick walk around the pitch before you go?” The two couples split apart.

“Did you enjoy playing again?” Harry asked Ginny.

“Yes,” Ginny said, “It’s odd, without you or Ron there. But I like being captain, and it’s nice to have the distraction, especially when Hermione is worrying about N.E.W.Ts.”

“What is she worrying about them now for?” Harry asked, “It’s November.”

“It’s Hermione,” Ginny replied, rolling her eyes slightly, “If she’s not worrying about N.E.W.Ts, she’s worrying about what she’s going to do after Hogwarts, and if she’s not worrying about that, she’s worrying about my N.E.W.Ts and post-Hogwarts plans.”

“Do you have post-Hogwarts plans yet?” Harry asked.

Ginny bit her lip. “I want to play Quidditch,” she said, “The League got together and sent around a form letter to all Hogwarts players from my fifth year, saying that they were still planning on recruiting even though Quidditch was cancelled last year, and to expect to see recruiters at games.”

Harry brightened up. “Quidditch, really? That sounds fantastic. Any team would be lucky to have you.”

“I hope Mum shares your sentiments,” Ginny replied, “Come on, we should walk back to the gates.” They met Ron and Hermione along the path, and both couples said goodbye. Hogsmeade weekends had been postponed until more Death Eaters had been caught, but as a concession to families hesitant to separate after the war, Professor McGonagall had allowed family members of any Hogwarts student to come to all Quidditch matches, not just ones where they had siblings or children playing. Harry, she had written in a separate letter, could count as a Weasley for Quidditch purposes. The gate from Hogwarts to the path to Hogsmeade was clogged with parents, siblings, and students saying goodbye, while two members of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol stood guard.

“Goodbye,” Ginny said, kissing Harry. Ron, again, was too absorbed in Hermione to notice.

“Goodbye,” Harry said, kissing her back, “I’ll see you in a few weeks for the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game.”

“Blimey,” Ron said, once they were on the other side of the gate, “That’s a lot of people.” Harry noticed for the first time that he was attracting a lot of stares.

“Come on,” he said in a low voice, “Let’s get going before we get mobbed.”

“Right,” said Ron, “See you at home,” and the two men Disapparated into the fading twilight.

* * *

July 13, 1999

Hermione slammed down a copy of the Daily Prophet on the dining room table at Grimmauld Place. “Really!” she said vehemently.

** _War Couples at War?_ **

_By Rita Skeeter_

_Are the two most famous couples in Wizarding Britain, relationships forged in the fires of war, finally on the outs with each other? Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, two members of the “Golden Trio,” co-defeaters of Voldemort, and recipients of the Order of Merlin, First Class, and long-time couple, were recently seen shopping at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Miss Granger, 19, had a dazzling diamond ring on her left hand. However, no ring adorns the finger of Miss Ginevra Weasley, 17, recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class, recent Hogwarts graduate and new first reserve Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Miss Weasley, longtime girlfriend of Mr. Harry Potter, who needs no introduction to our loyal readers, has not been lately seen in the company of Mr. Potter or her brother and his fiancée. Sources tell the Daily Prophet that Miss Weasley and Mr. Potter began dating in Mr. Potter’s sixth year, weeks before the tragic demise of Albus Dumbledore at the hands of Severus Snape (for full coverage of Severus Snape’s actions during both wars, see page 6). Has the beloved couple split apart? Has the recent engagement of Miss Granger to Mr. Weasley prompted second thoughts about their relationship? Are both couples now avoiding each other, perhaps out of jealousy?_

“Ridiculous,” Harry said, nodding his head, “Anyone with eyes can clearly see that your ring is, uh, sapphire. Sapphire, right? Because it’s blue?”

“That is not what I’m referring to Harry Potter, and you know it!” Hermione said sternly.

“What are you referring to?” asked Ron, ambling up from the kitchen with a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand, “Oh, that’s a nice picture of us.”

“Rita Skeeter is an absolute cow,” said Hermione.

“We know,” replied Harry, “That’s not news.”

“Besides, anyone with half a brain knows that there probably aren’t many pictures of you and Ginny because we finished Hogwarts less than two weeks ago and she only had a week free before the Harpies’ training camp.”

“I know,” Harry said morosely.

“Don’t worry about it, Hermione,” Ron said, skimming the article, “It’s just Rita Skeeter. She’s trying to make trouble where there isn’t any.”

“Well, she should pick something other than our engagement!” Hermione said hotly.

“I know,” Ron said soothingly, “But it’s Rita Skeeter. It’s better to just ignore her.” Hermione continued to grumble while sipping her tea.

“Hello? Anyone home?” a voice called from what had been dubbed the “Floo Room.”

“Ginny!” Harry leapt up from the table to greet his girlfriend.

“Harry, I need you to let me through,” she said as he started up the staircase to the first floor. The “Floo Room,” which was once (and technically still) the drawing room, had become somewhat of a problem for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. While 12 Grimmauld Place was technically unlisted, Bill and Hermione had removed the old Fidelius Charm. There was a risk that an unwanted visitor – fan or foe – might be able to come through the floo. Thus, the “Floo Room” was born. Bill had set strengthening and imperturbable charms all around the walls to protect them from _bombarda _and _reducto_, and enchantments on the hallway door so that it had to be opened from the outside. Sound could flow out, but not in.

Harry kissed Ginny soundly once she was in the hallway. “Have you seen the Prophet yet?” She asked, linking her hand with his as they walked back down the stairs to the dining room.

“Yes, Hermione showed it to me. She’s not pleased,” Harry said.

“I can imagine,” Ginny replied, “It described her ring wrong!”

“That’s not it!” said Hermione crossly, overhearing them, “Rita Skeeter is the most unreliable, unprofessional, unethical–”

“We know, dear,” said Ron, kissing the top of her head, “But it doesn’t do any good to stress about it. How’s training, Ginny?”

“Going well,” Ginny replied, “I’ve got the morning off and figured I’d floo over from Wales and see what you three were up to. Is there any food left, or has Ron eaten it all?”

“There should be some food left, and I can always make more,” Harry said, “Come down to the kitchen with me.” The couple left the room.

“Blimey,” Ron’s voice drifted down the hall as they walked, “D’you think they will get engaged?”

* * *

November 5, 2000

“–I love you, Ginny Weasley. Will you marry me?” Harry was on one knee on hard dirt, with a chilly breeze blowing the grey branches above his head.

“Yes,” Ginny said, grinning, “Of course I will. Were you expecting a different answer?”

“Of course not,” said Harry, staggering slightly to his feet, “But it never hurts to ask.” He slipped the ring on her finger. It wasn’t ostentatious – a gold band with a diamond flanked on either side by two sapphires. He’d found it in his Gringotts vault, once he’d discovered his parents’ and grandparents’ personal effects had been delivered. Somehow, they had languished in the Ministry for almost two decades, until Kinglsey Shacklebolt had become Minister and insisted the department that dealt with bequests and estates actually function on a reasonable timeframe.

“It’s beautiful, Harry, thank you,” Ginny said, a little breathlessly.

“I got it out of the vault,” Harry said, “The tag said ‘Euphemia,’ so I think it must have been my grandmother’s. Andromeda wasn’t sure whether it was her engagement ring or not, but I thought it looked beautiful.” Ginny shivered a bit. “Oh, sorry, it is cold out. I didn’t really think of that when I was planning all this.” Harry waved a hand around them. They were in a small clearing near a pond at Breakwater Country Park in Wales. It was one of their favorite picnic locations, on the rare occasion Ginny didn’t have a Saturday match or practice.

“Did they all know you were proposing?” Ginny asked, putting an arm around his waist.

“No,” Harry said, “Just your mum and dad and Andromeda. I didn’t think Teddy could keep it to himself.”

“No, probably not,” Ginny replied, “He is only two and a half.”

“Well, soon-to-be Mrs. Potter,” Harry began, “What shall we do now?”

“Now, Mr. Potter, we plan a wedding.”

* * *

August 19, 2002

“I am never planning a wedding again!” Ginny cried, flopping onto the comfortable feather mattress.

“Good thing you don’t have to,” Harry said, coming out of the bathroom and drying off his hair with a towel, “One and done seems just the thing.”

“It was two days ago and I’m still exhausted,” Ginny complained.

“Are you sure that’s all your exhausted from?” Harry asked, grinning.

“Prat,” she said, throwing a pillow at him. He dodged.

“Nice aim, Miss Chaser,” he said, coming to recline on the bed next to her.

“That’s Mrs. Chaser to you,” she said primly.

“No, but seriously,” Harry said with a perfectly innocent expression, “We had to take a portkey from London, and we spent all morning sightseeing around Vienna. It’s perfectly natural to be exhausted. Are you too tired for dinner tonight?”

“Too tired for dinner? Never!” Ginny exclaimed, “Where are we going?”

“Bill recommended this nice little place near Karlsplatz. Apparently, it does excellent veal schnitzel. We’ll have to walk though, since I don’t know where a good apparition point is.”

And walk they did. At about six o’clock they left the small flat – helpfully rented out by a wizarding couple – and strolled for half an hour past Schwedenplatz and Stefansplatz. Ginny was delighted by their muggle surroundings, the beautiful Gothic churches, and the sound of German rather than Welsh or English.

“Here we are,” Harry said, opening the door to the restaurant. They enjoyed a delicious meal of schnitzel and Austrian wine.

“It’s nice not to be recognized,” Ginny said as they left the restaurant. It was eight o’clock and the sun was just beginning to set.

“Yes,” said Harry, “I’m not sure if any of our lot would even recognize the pair of us here.”

Ginny mock-gasped, “Not recognize the Boy-Who-Lived? The Chosen One? The horror!”

Harry grinned, “Not recognize you, Mrs. Potter, star chaser of the Holyhead Harpies and whose wedding was recently covered in depth by several newspapers and magazines.”

Ginny pulled up short. “Have you read them,” she asked, a bit annoyed.

“No, of course not,” Harry said, “We agreed, no reading the press on our honeymoon. I’m just speculating though. Sure, we did all we could to make it low-key, but you know they’ll still cover it.”

“I know,” said Ginny, with a huff and an eye-roll, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Sounds good, Mrs. Potter,” said Harry, taking her hand, “Let’s talk about what we have planned for tomorrow.”

* * *

November 10, 2003

“Do you want to tell them tonight?” Harry asked his tired looking wife.

“Tell them what?” she asked, not lifting her head off the arm of the sofa, where she was curled up under a blanket, despite the cottage being plenty warm. The couple lived in a little terraced house in Llangefni, on Anglesey in Wales. The house’s main attraction was that it had a fireplace, a nice small one in the living room that only connected to a few others on the Floo Network. It was tiny and cozy in every respect. The sofa Ginny was lying on was only a few feet from the fireplace, the backyard was just big enough for a small garden (with a few potions ingredients growing) and a stone shed where they stored broomsticks and a flying motorbike, and there wasn’t even a hint of a dining room, unlike the elaborate and cavernous Number 12 Grimmauld Place. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom squeezed on the second floor. One was their room, one was a guest room, and one was filled with boxes.

“Our news,” Harry said, slightly bemused, “Or have you forgotten?”

Ginny gave a small groan, “No, of course I haven’t forgotten, how could I? It’s only upended everything from my stomach to my career.”

Harry frowned, “You don’t seem very excited. Are you alright?”

Ginny rolled slightly further on to her side. “Of course I am. I’m just not feeling all that chipper. I’m happy, you know that, right?”

Harry bent to kiss her forehead. “Of course I do.”

Forty-five minutes later, after Ginny had downed a Rapid Anti-Nausea potion, a somewhat recent creation of Angelina’s, and cast a balancing charm on herself, the Potters spun through the floo and arrived at the Burrow. There was a flurry of greetings and hellos. Andromeda was in the kitchen helping Molly, while Arthur supervised five-year-old Teddy and three-year-old Victoire in the backyard. Bill was on the sitting room floor, trying to keep small objects out of one-year-old Dominique’s mouth, while Fleur sat in an armchair next to Angelina, who was seven months pregnant. George, Ron, and Hermione were nowhere in sight.

“Where are the others?” Harry asked as Ginny sat herself down on the couch opposite Fleur, who looked at her suspiciously.

“Ron and George are coming from the joke shop,” Bill replied, “And Percy and Hermione are both working late on that case.” Harry nodded, being intimately familiar already with what “that case” was.

“How are you feeling?” Ginny asked Angelina.

“Fine, mostly,” Angelina responded, “The third trimester is not so bad.”

“Are you any closer to deciding on a girl’s name?”

“No, not at all.”

“I remember when we were trying to come up with names for Dominique. I liked Nicolas or Sebastian for a boy and Celine or Emilie for a girl,” Fleur said.

“And I liked Christopher or David and Natalie or Roxanne,” Bill put in.

“At least we’ve said no to Priscilla,” Angelina said decidedly.

“Silla!” Dominique repeated from the floor, before lunging towards an end table, apparently determined to cause some amount of mayhem even in the reasonably toddler-safe Burrow.

The two couples plus Angelina – and the toddler – continued to chat idly until Ron and George arrived.

“Hermione not here yet?” Ron asked as George kissed Angelina hello.

“No,” said Bill, “She and Percy are still at work.” Just then the front door open and the two dedicated Ministry officials in question came into the house.

“I had to drag her away,” Percy said, “Otherwise we never would have made it.

Ron kissed his wife, then turned to his brother, “Blimey, Perce, it’s like someone has gone and softened you up!”

“Shhhh, not so loud,” Percy said, looking down the hall towards the kitchen. Bill and Ginny both smirked.

“It’s a very important case,” Hermione said, a bit indignant, “It’s going to set a precedent for –”

“We know, Hermione,” Ron said, kissing her again, “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“Is everyone here?” called Mrs. Weasley from the kitchen.

“Yes, Mum!” Ron called back.

“Good, then come in and help set the table.”

It took all twelve adults to get the four children washed up and in chairs (or highchairs, in the case of Dominique) and the table set with dishes and food. There was a happy hum of noise as dishes were passed from person to person and everyone inquired after the people sitting near them. Harry heard snatches of Hermione explaining her current caseload to Bill and Fleur, and Angelina chatting with Ron and Percy about advancements in potion-making.

“Are you excited about going back to primary?” Harry asked Teddy.

“No! No primary!” Victoire interrupted.

“Victoire is a bit upset,” Bill said in explanation, “She doesn’t understand why she can’t go to primary as well.” Both Teddy and Victoire looked put out about this. Teddy, once he had gotten his accidental morphing under control, had started at the primary school near Victoire’s house the previous year.

“Victoire, Teddy didn’t go to nursery either,” Andromeda said soothingly, but Victoire just scowled.

“We went to see the education advisor at the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee,” Fleur said from down the table, “And she suggested waiting a year. Apparently, it’s been a common concern, and she’s found that the children usually do better once they turn four, or even five.” The Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, reorganized after the war, had hired a muggle-born to assist wizarding parents with enrolling their children in muggle primary schools and to assist in explaining the wizarding world to muggle parents when their small wizard or witch did enough accidental magic to warrant a visit from the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad. One of their most useful functions for wizarding parents was arranging children’s enrollment at whatever school the parents wished (assuming they had the money for tuition), so families were able to group wizarding children together. Thus, Teddy attended school in Tinworth, even though the Tonks family home was in Longstanton, outside Cambridge.

“How’s Quidditch going?” Ron asked Ginny, once the talk of schools and accidental magic had died away.

Ginny looked at Harry. “Right, yes, well,” Harry said, standing up and running his hand through his hair.

“Why are you standing?” George asked.

“Shhh,” said Ginny. Mrs. Weasley beamed.

“Uh, I, that is, Ginny and I–” Harry began.

“I’m pregnant,” Ginny cut in. What could only be described as squeals erupted from several seats around the table. Bill and Arthur beamed. George looked simultaneously happy and slightly suspicious. Percy looked bemused. Ron looked between Harry and Ginny with a confused expression.

“Oh, how wonderful, congratulations,” Mrs. Weasley said, getting up to hug Harry and Ginny, “When are you due?”

“June 12,” Ginny replied, “I’m nine weeks along right now.”

“How have you been feeling?” asked Andromeda solicitously.

“Very tired,” Ginny said, “And bored, of course. I haven’t been able to play Quidditch since we found out. It’s been four weeks and five days since I’ve been on a broom!”

“Not that you’re counting,” smirked George.

“Pregnant?” interjected Teddy.

“Ginny is going to have a baby,” Harry said, crouching down by his godson’s chair, “Just like Fleur. What do you think of that?”

Teddy was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Where will it sleep? In my room?”

“Probably not,” said Ginny, “We’re thinking of clearing out all the boxes from the third bedroom. The guest room will stay the way it is – all set up and ready for you Teddy.”

“And you can name the baby Oswaldo!” Victoire said excitedly.

* * *

July 31, 2004

“Hello Dad, Mum, Sirius,” Harry began. He was standing in the graveyard at Godric’s Hollow with a baby in his arms, staring at his parents’ and godfather’s headstones. After the war ended, he had a marker for Sirius put in next to his parents’, even though there wasn’t a body. “I’d like you to meet someone. This is James Sirius Potter. He’s six weeks old.” Harry ran his hand through his hair awkwardly. “George suggested this. He said he did it with Fred and baby Fred. He said it helped. I dunno what to say though.”

Harry paused for several minutes, listening to the wind whistle around the church steeple and watching James’s small chest rise and fall. “He’s a great baby,” he began again, “Well, mostly. He’s a terror when it comes to sleep. And eating. And he wants to be held all the time. But he’s the first blood relative I can remember, other than the Dursleys that is. That’s special, you know? And there are no dark wizards after him. No prophecies. I checked, don’t worry.”

“I’m older than you, now, Mum and Dad. Not older than Sirius – that’ll be another dozen years. But I’m twenty-four and you died at twenty-one. I wasn’t even married at twenty-one. Anyways, I should get back to the house. We’re in Wales. But I wanted to come and say hello. And introduce you to my son – James Sirius Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue left it ambiguous how many years James was ahead of Albus in school, so I've decided to have James two years ahead of him in accordance with JKR's Twitter.


	3. Everything

July 15, 1998

“Of course, we’ll need to go to Diagon Alley as soon as we get our book lists. I think maybe we should go to Flourish and Blotts even earlier, or perhaps get some books via owl order. We did spend last year out of school…”

“Hermione,” Ron began patiently.

“And I’m sure all three of us will need to do a lot of revising. We only get once chance to sit our N.E.W.Ts and it’s not like we spent a lot of time reading last year. I’ll add homework planners to my list. Also new quills and parchment. What was it you wanted to say, Ronald?”

“Come sit next to me,” Ron said, patting the sofa in the drawing room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. “Hermione, I’m not going back to Hogwarts.”

“Well of course you don’t need to go back tomorrow, you’re probably really tired from all the repairs you did today. I’m sure they can spare us for one day,” Hermione said.

“No, Hermione, I’m not going back for my seventh year,” Ron said, a hint of frustration in his voice.

“But…why? What will you do?” Hermione asked, her eyes filling with tears.

“Shacklebolt – Kingsley – he’s made Harry and me an offer. All of us, really. He says we can enter the Auror Department without our N.E.W.Ts. We’re still going to follow the three year training course as best they can manage, but they lost so many aurors during the war and he still isn’t sure of the loyalties of the remaining ones. I’m going to be an auror, Hermione.”

“But…but what about our seventh year? What about N.E.W.Ts?”

Ron shrugged. “I’ve got my O.W.Ls. I’m fully qualified. This past year, Hermione…” he sighed, “I’m ready to be done with school. I can’t go back, not after spending a year on the run. I can’t go back to homework and essays and Transfiguration class and detentions and Hogsmeade weekends. I want to do this now. I want to catch Dark wizards and put away the last of the Death Eaters.”

“But what about Harry? What about me?” The tears in Hermione’s eyes still hadn’t begun to fall.

“Hermione, I doubt Harry will go back either. Are you sure you want to go back? We’ve fought two battles in that school–”

“We’ve fought a battle in the Ministry!”

“I’m not going to be an Unspeakable,” Ron said shortly, “And my brother didn’t die in the Department of Mysteries. He died at Hogwarts. I’m not going back once we finish the last of the rebuilding. Not next year. Not for a long time. I know its Hogwarts, but I’m not sure I want to see it again for the rest of my life.”

With that, Hermione started to cry in earnest. “But I’ll be all alone. I don’t want to go back, not alone.”

Ron rubbed her shoulders hesitantly, “I think Ginny is going back. And Luna. Maybe Dean as well. It won’t be too bad. And Harry and I will come see you as often as we can. Hermione, finishing your N.E.W.Ts…that’s part of your dream. Being an auror is my dream.”

“But without your N.E.W.Ts, how will you advance?” Hermione asked, still trying to reason him into returning to Hogwarts.

“Hermione, what are my chances of advancing past Harry, who also won’t have his N.E.W.Ts?” Ron said, with a self-deprecating smile, “He’ll probably be head of the department one day, and it’s not like he can hold it against me when he hasn’t got them either. Besides, Shacklebolt – Kingsley – said we could take the tests before Christmas if we liked. They’re arranging another special non-traditional testing session since so many people only missed part of a year.”

“I’ll miss you,” Hermione said quietly.

“I’ll miss you too,” Ron said, “But I can’t go back to Hogwarts.”

* * *

July 1, 1999

Sun poured through his window at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Ron had taken one of the back bedrooms on the second floor. The solitary window looked out over a back alley where, if he woke up early enough, he could see the muggle neighbors driving off to work. Number 12 was still hidden from view, which made for a few awkward encounters with the residents of Number 11 and Number 13 Grimmauld Place on the times Ron hadn’t taken the floo home from the Ministry. Next to him in the bed was one Hermione Jean Granger, recent graduate of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, prefect, Order of Merlin, First Class. She was, of course, asleep. Ron smirked slightly. Knowing his mother’s slight double standards, there was absolutely no way that Harry was waking up to a similar sight with Ginny. She undoubtedly had spent her first night home from Hogwarts safely ensconced in the Burrow under Molly and Arthur Weasley’s watchful eyes.

Ron thought back to the conversation his father had had with him the night before Hermione and Ginny had come home on the Hogwarts Express. Though many often thought of Arthur Weasley as a bit awkward and bumbling (rightfully so), he had quite clearly laid out his expectations for his youngest son – namely, that while his mum and dad hoped that all of their children would reserve “certain things” for marriage, they were aware that expectations were changing, even in the wizarding world, and that most of all his father expected him to treat Hermione with respect and not to have any grandchildren outside marriage.

It was slightly less awkward than the talk Ron had gotten between his third and fourth years. But only slightly.

Hermione began to shift, then pulled a pillow over her face. “Good morning!” Ron said cheerily, “Fancy that, I’m up before you are. Look at the time though, we’ve got to get dressed and moving! Lots to do today!”

Hermione glared at him. “Lots to do?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“Oh yes, I’ve got the whole day planned out. We’re going to run some errands, nip down to that muggle grocery store – did you know I’ve learned how to use muggle money? – and then go for a nice lunch in Diagon Alley. Mum wants all of us back at the Burrow before dinner, but I thought before that we’d have a little stroll around Ottery St. Catchpole. I’ve never really showed you around – we’ve always had to stay close to the house for Harry’s safety. But now the wizarding world is the safest it’s been in almost a decade, and I want to show you the village.”

Hermione, despite her initial unenthusiastic start to the day, was ready fairly quickly and met Ron and a somewhat surly Harry in the dining room for one of Kreacher’s delicious breakfasts (Kreacher was conspicuously absent, though whether it was out of discomfort of Hermione as a muggleborn or out of fear she would try to free him was anyone’s guess).

“So, Harry, what are you planning on doing today?” Hermione asked.

“I have to go into the office for a bit to finish up some paperwork,” Harry said, stabbing a piece of sausage with slightly more force than was strictly necessary, “But then I’m meeting Ginny for lunch near St. Mungo’s. She has to get a physical before she travels to Wales for the Harpies’ training camp.” Hermione looked slightly sympathetic at this. Ron, on the other hand, looked a little relieved.

“And she’ll be staying in Wales, yeah?” he asked.

“Yes,” Harry said, continuing to do violence to the sausage, “Though she has some mornings off and can leave the training facility.”

“But she has to spend the nights in Wales?” Ron asked.

Harry put down his fork and knife. “Yes, _Ronald_, we discussed this. She has to live with the team in Wales until the end of the summer training camp. Then she’s encouraged, though not required, to live in an apartment in the Harpies’ tower on Anglesey.”

“I still can’t believe Quidditch players get free apartments,” Hermione said.

“From what Ginny says, the apartments for reserve players are rather small, but it is a nice perk. She’d have a short commute and would be able to save money,” Harry said.

The trio finished up breakfast, and after a few attempts by Hermione to clear the dishes and take them downstairs, waylaid by Harry who knew exactly how Kreacher would feel about that, Ron and Hermione walked to the front door and started putting on their shoes.

“What are your plans for the day?” Harry asked casually, watching them get ready to leave Number 12.

“Not much,” Hermione said, pulling her hair out from under her light cardigan, “Ron mentioned picking up groceries and lunch in Diagon Alley.”

“And a walk around Ottery St. Catchpole,” Ron added.

“Well, I think that’s it then,” Hermione said, slipping her bag over her shoulder, “Ready?”

“Ready!” replied Ron, “Right behind you.” He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket to make sure the ring box was still there, and nodded at Harry, who had a knowing grin. “See you for dinner, mate.”

“Have fun you two!” Harry said, waving them off the front stoop and shutting the door behind them.

* * *

May 27, 2000

“Will you, Ron Bilius, take Hermione Jean to be your wife? Will you love, comfort, honor, and protect her…?”

On either side of the aisle at St. Jude on the Hill in Hampstead, Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Granger were sitting, crying into their respective handkerchiefs, as Ron and Hermione said their vows. The little old wizard, who presided over Dumbledore’s funeral and Bill and Fleur’s wedding some three years prior, was, as Harry had learned, a Church of England minister and with the assistance of the reformed Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, his services were in high-demand for muggleborn and halfblood marriages. The church sparkled with candlelight as the Ron and Hermione said their vows and exchanged golden wedding bands.

“They have declared their marriage by the joining of hands and by the giving and receiving of rings. I therefore proclaim that they are husband and wife and declare you bonded for life,” the wizard announced. On cue, Ginny, Harry, and the rest of the wedding party threw silver confetti into the air. Ron smiled at Hermione, offered her his arm, and they processed out of the church, followed by their friends and family.

A few hours later, Ron stood up from his chair at the high table as Harry stomped his feet. “Good evening, good evening. For those of you who have never seen me before in your life, my name is Ronald Weasley. Nine years ago this September, I was sitting in a compartment on the train to school with the scrawny black-haired midget on the other side of Hermione. Hermione, of course, I met later, as she burst into our compartment trying to help Neville find his lost pet. To be honest, she rather intimidated me at first. She was brilliant and beautiful, even at eleven. It took us years – and many ups and downs – to acknowledge our feelings, but I just want to thank Neville for losing Trevor in the first place.” Ron raised his glass to Neville.

“Hermione, you have been an amazing friend ever since that first year at school. I am honored to be your husband. To Mr. and Mrs. Granger, thank you for raising such a wonderful daughter. And to Mum and Dad, thank you for your patience during all those years of raising me. And to all of you, thank you for being our friends.” Ron raised his glass, everyone drank, and then he sat down and kissed Hermione soundly.

“Did you think we’d make it to this?” Hermione asked as they danced.

Ron thought for a moment. “Honestly, no. There were so many times I thought for sure we were going to die. Merlin, between Death Eaters at the Ministry, Malfoy Manor, and Hogwarts, not to mention the horcruxes. I tried not to think about which one of us it would be, but it seemed impossible that all three of us would make it out alive.”

Hermione rested her head against his shoulder. “And now we’re married,” she said.

“And now we’re married – bonded for life.”

“Well, Hermione, is it everything you thought it would be?” Ron asked, smiling down at his bride as the song ended.

“Well, Ronald, I suppose it is,” Hermione said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him.

* * *

December 25, 2000

“I’m exhausted,” Ron complained, practically falling onto the plaid sofa in the Granger-Weasley apartment.

“No one made you apparate up and down the country,” Hermione snapped, pulling one boot off and rubbing the arch of her foot. The newlyweds had woken up early in the morning to open presents and eat breakfast with the rest of the Weasleys in Ottery St. Catchpole, then apparated to the Grangers’ for Christmas lunch, then returned to the Burrow for Christmas dinner. Hermione felt like an exhausted stuffed pig.

“But I always open presents with my family,” Ron said, his voice slightly muffled by the sofa cushion, shoved as it was in the corner of their one bedroom flat in Craven Street.

Hermione bit her lip. She had heard a lot of “always” in the past seven months of marriage and wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. Ron “always” had Sunday dinner at the Burrow. Ron “always” told his parents news from work. Ron “always” brought home leftovers from his mother. It wasn’t that these things were particularly trying – Hermione loved Sunday dinners (mostly) and Mrs. Weasley’s cooking (almost always) and didn’t begrudge her husband’s conversations with his parents (except when she did).

“I hope you don’t expect to keep this schedule up when we have children,” Hermione said lightly.

“Children? Who said anything about children?” Ron said, sitting straight up and looking nervous. He had tentatively patted tiny Victoire on the head and done a few magic tricks for two-and-a-half-year-old Teddy. He had even briefly admired the Christmas photograph of one-year-old Max Wood that Oliver and Katie had sent them. But any mention of their own children brought a look of fear to his face.

“I’m just saying, it’s hardly fair to drag babies and toddlers around all of England just because you’ve ‘always’ done it,” Hermione said.

“Well, we’ve got years to figure that out. And it’s not like Victoire or Teddy seem to mind.”

“Victoire is six months. She doesn’t mind anything except dirty nappies and George’s fireworks.”

“Why are you on about this anyways? I thought we were waiting!”

“We are waiting, Ronald,” Hermione replied with a sigh.

“Well then, no need to fret about it now. We’ll sort it out when we get there. Tea?”

“Is this how you want to keep going on?”

“What? What do you mean?” Ron had half-risen off the sofa, his body turned towards the kitchen.

“Like this. Never deciding, never changing, just floating along.”

“Hermione, we can relax now. It’s not like school, like the war. We don’t have to run around solving the next crisis.”

“But that’s just it! We didn’t have to decide with the war either! We just got pulled along by Voldemort and his plans – the stone, the snake, Sirius – it’s hardly like we could just leave any of them alone! ‘Yeah, alright, good luck with the dementors, glad to hear you’re innocent, ta ta for now.’ We had to act. And when the war ended, I went back to school and you went to the Aurors and we’ve both spent the past two years trying to piece back together some measure of a functioning society, preferably free of the likes of Lucius Malfoy. We do our duty and we float.”

“What do you want then?”

“I don’t know! I just want to choose something! I want us to talk about it and then decide rather than just…fumbling.”

It was Christmas, their first married Christmas, and they were finally having the argument. No, marriage was not everything she thought it would be. She was tired of being pulled along in the Weasley morass, in the persona of Hermione Jean Granger, Order of Merlin, one third of the “Golden Trio,” married to another third. Pulled by expectations, pushed by “always.”

Ron shrugged. “I really don’t understand what you’re talking about Hermione. I’m going to put on the kettle.”

* * *

January 1, 2006

Neither Hermione nor Ron were as young as they once were. True, Hermione was only twenty-six and Ron was twenty-five, but three years of a war with all the battles and skirmishes will do that to a body.

“Breathe now, Hermione, breathe,” the midwife said. They weren’t at home, as Fleur and Angelina had been. They were in a room at St. Mungo’s, with all the equipment proper to a mother with known and unknown curse injuries, with a twenty-six-year-old body that often acted as if it were forty. Ron was holding her hand, his sleeves pushed above his elbows, the rope-like scars from the brains in the Department of Mysteries still showing almost ten years later. A pediatric healer murmured to a mediwitch in the background.

Hermione fell back against the pillow. “I’m so tired,” she whispered, “It doesn’t feel right, pushing like this.”

“I know,” the midwife said, “It’s not the easiest position. But it’s the best for you right now, so we can ease baby over your pelvis.” Hermione’s bones had tiny bumps and divots in some places from Bellatrix Lestrange’s Cruciatus Curse. Most of the time they were irrelevant except, as it turned out, when having babies.

Another contraction, then another. The midwife glanced at her watch. “Okay Hermione, one big push – we need this baby out now.”

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron said encouragingly as she squeezed his hand, “Rose is coming, it’s almost time.”

And finally, after 27 hours of labor and 2 hours of pushing, Rose Theresa Weasley was born into the world.

“You did so well,” Ron said, kissing his wife, “So well.”


	4. The Full Circle of Fred Weasley

June 5, 2003

His brother was going to kill him.

His mother was going to kill him, and then after he was already dead his brother was going to kill him, and he’d be cast into the outer darkness the American muggle was yelling about on the street corner.

“GEORGE!”

“Hmmm?” George Weasley responded.

“I’m pregnant.”

“So you said.”

“With a baby.”

“Yes.”

“Your baby.”

“I figured.”

“Bastard.”

It occurred to George that perhaps this was not the best time for sarcasm. “Sorry,” he said, abashed, looking down at his cup of tea. They were at a Muggle café near Charing Cross Road. He thought, all things considered, Angelina would be angrier. Probably she was. He hadn’t really said anything yet. Anything about the pregnancy. The baby. Angelina. George. Fred.

Fred and Angelina hadn’t actually dated. They’d gone to the Yule Ball together. One date. They’d spent most of the time with George and Alicia; making fun of Filch, mocking Snape, unsuccessfully trying to charm Roger Davies robes to turn a lurid pink. George wasn’t sure the rest of his family realized that. He wasn’t sure they’d care, given that he’d gotten Fred’s one-time-Yule-Ball-date pregnant.

He’d done alright with grief during these years, all things considered. There’d been some problematic alcohol use (to borrow Hermione’s words from when she found him and Harry asleep on the top of the Burrow’s chicken coop). There’d been some skiving off work. There’d been a surprising amount of crying. But really, he had done well. At least until he’d knocked Angelina up.

“George,” Angelina said again. She sounded impatient.

“Oh, sorry,” George replied, “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to say. Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I mean, have you gone to a healer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Is everything fine? I mean with the baby. And you.”

“Yes, everything’s fine. We’re both fine. The baby isn’t very big.”

“Right. Ummmm…when is it coming?”

“Late January.” Angelina looked alright. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t shouting. George had no idea what he was supposed to do. If Fred were alive, he’d ask Fred. If Fred were alive, there was no guarantee that George wouldn’t have gotten Angelina pregnant anyways, but probably he wouldn’t have been out drinking on the fifth anniversary of Fred’s death.

Maybe he’d ask Bill.

“What do we do now?” George asked.

“I don’t know,” Angelina shrugged, “I suppose we tell people. Tell our parents.”

* * *

June 6, 2003

“Angelina’s pregnant,” George said just as Bill had taken a swallow of butterbeer. Bill choked. “And seriously, could you be any more of a wuss? It’s butterbeer not firewhiskey! It’s not even as strong as muggle beer.”

“Dominique is getting her molars in. I don’t want to have a hangover tomorrow. But that’s not the point. Angelina’s pregnant? Angelina who?” Bill asked, running a hand through his hair, “Blimey, I’m not sure what to ask first.”

“Yes, Angelina’s pregnant. Angelina Johnson, you prat,” George responded. Bill’s expression was still blank. “Gryffindor Chaser, same year as Fred and me, captain our final year. Really, nothing?”

“I left the year before you started, remember? And went off to Egypt the year you and Fred made the team.”

“She went to the Yule Ball with Fred. Does that ring a bell?”

“Oh,” Bill responded, slightly bemused, “Yes. Pretty girl. I didn’t know Fred had a girlfriend.”

“He didn’t,” George replied, “It was just one night.”

“And you and she? Was that just one night too?” George rolled his eyes. “I’m just asking, honest. It’s Mum you’ve got to watch out for.”

“Yeah,” George said slowly, taking a sip of butterbeer, “Just one night. It was after the five year memorial.”

“Hmmmm,” murmured Bill, “Were you both drunk?”

“Tipsy,” George said, “We went out with Katie and Oliver, but they had to get home early for their babysitter. Ran into Lee Jordan for a bit too.”

“I would’ve thought the time for drunkenly knocking someone up would’ve been right after the Battle,” Bill said, “Not five years later.”

George shrugged, “Not like these things really get planned.”

“Suppose not. Have you told Mum and Dad?”

“Not yet. We’re supposed to go tell Angelina’s parents tomorrow morning, then stop by the Burrow that evening. I’m not sure how much time it’s supposed to take. What do you say, really? ‘Hi, nice to see you, we’re having a baby, due in January, bye.’ Or do you stick around for tea? I can’t even remember how you and Fleur told everyone.”

“I stood up at Christmas dinner and announced it, although I think Mum already knew. Remember how we didn’t tell you all for months? We weren’t sure the baby would make it. Fleur didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up,” Bill said. Time had made it easier for him to talk about the year after the Battle of Hogwarts, the year he and Fleur kept trying to get pregnant, everyone grieving, and the two of them grieving the dead and the not-yet-living.

“There’s an idea, waiting till Christmas,” George said with a small smile.

“Don’t even think about it,” Bill replied sternly, “Are you going to marry her?”

“Dunno. Depends on what she wants, I guess. We’ve always gotten along, Angelina and me. I had a bit of a crush on her sixth year, but then Fred took her to the Ball, and then the next year she was Quidditch captain and there was Umbridge and then Fred and I left.”

“Mum’ll expect a wedding. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I do. Yesterday didn’t seem like a great time to bring it up though.” George swallowed the last of his butterbeer.

Bill scooped up the two empty bottles. “I’ll go get more.” George leaned back in the booth. So far Victoire and Dominique were the only grandchildren. Percy and Charlie weren’t even married, and the rest of them didn’t have kids. Oliver and Katie had two.

“You’re going to be a good dad, you know,” Bill said as he passed George an uncapped butterbeer.

“What makes you say that?” George asked.

Bill shrugged. “We had a good dad. That seems to help. Whenever the girls are pitching fits or whinging I think, ‘Now, what would Dad do?’ Of course, he didn’t have two daughters and I wasn’t even around much when Ginny was a toddler.”

“Blimey, I’m going to be a dad.”

Bill smiled. “Welcome to fatherhood. Chin up.”

* * *

July 28, 2003

“Are you sure about this?” George asked. Angelina was standing next to him in front of the jewelry shop, her hand tucked around his arm.

“Mostly,” Angelina replied. She sounded calm. “This is what is done. Even in the Muggle world, for the most part, at least according to Hermione.

“I won’t make you, you know,” George said, “I’ll stand up to Mum. Your Mum too. The whole damn world, if I must. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I know. I know you won’t. And I won’t make you either. But it is simpler. Easier. Even you must know that in our world people don’t always marry for love. Probably not in the muggle world either. Remember that muggle princess?”

“The one who died during the war right before the kids had to go back to Hogwarts? Vaguely. I remember it made it easier for the Order to get the last of the muggleborn kids out of the country.”

“Do you feel trapped?” Angelina asked.

“No,” George replied, “Not really. This is how it is. We’re having a baby so we’re getting married. Means you need a ring. Bit backwards, I suppose. Fred should be here.”

Angelina hummed in agreement but didn’t say anything. George thought back to a few weeks prior. They’d gone ‘round to Angelina’s parents first. Angelina’s father was a muggleborn and her mother was a half-blood – George felt oddly proud of being the father of the first half-blood Weasley – but they were a British couple born in the fifties. There was nothing odd to them about wand weddings – Mr. Johnson had called it a “shotgun” wedding, whatever that was. Not that they were pleased. But they didn’t seem too angry.

His mum and dad probably would have been angrier if Fred hadn’t died or if they hadn’t had other grandchildren to distract them. As it was, being alive and getting a girl pregnant was a lot less depressing than being dead. His parents and older brothers didn’t even seem to remember that Fred had gone to the Yule Ball with Angelina. Ron had raised an eyebrow but hadn’t said anything.

“Shall we go in?” Angelina asked. The jewelry shop was cozy and underlit.

“Can I help you?” a kind-looking older man asked. He looked as old as Mr. Ollivander – or as young as Mr. Ollivander would have looked if Voldemort hadn’t kidnapped and held him in Malfoy Manor during the war.

“Yes, we’re looking for an engagement ring,” George said.

“Right this way, right this way, congratulations, congratulations,” the shopkeeper replied. He brought out two trays of rings. One was filled with diamond rings, the other with various gemstones. Finding a ring, much like the rest of their courtship, didn’t take long. The shopkeeper put it in a little velvet box and wrapped it up, but once they were out of the shop and down the street Angelina tugged at his pocket.

“What?” he asked.

“Take it out, please.”

George drew out the box. “What for? You know I have to propose with that.”

“Don’t be daft, put it on me,” Angelina said bluntly. George stopped and looked at her. She seemed determined, not teary or wistful. He pulled out the box, opened it, and slipped the small emerald ring on her finger. “There,” she said,” That does look nice,” and she tucked her arm back in his elbow.

“You don’t want a proposal?” he asked.

“You can propose on our five year anniversary,” Angelina replied, looking straight ahead.

* * *

September 2, 2003

“I’M KING OF THE WORLD!” Ron shouted.

“Get back in here! Are you daft! What is bloody wrong with you?” Harry shouted back and pulled his best friend down out of the sunroof of the limousine.

“I’ve seen it in those moving muggle pictures Hermione likes!” Ron said indignantly.

“Those are movies, not real life, don’t be a prat. Honestly, Hermione shouldn’t show them to you if this is how you’re going to behave. Sorry, George,” Harry said.

“I like them!” Ron responded with a huff, crossing his arms and flopping back on the seat.

“Carry on fighting like an old married couple, you two,” Charlie said, “It’s amusing for the rest of us.”

“These muggles really are ingenious,” Percy cut in, “Reckon one of us should go and get Dad? He’ll be sorry he missed it.”

With that, George cut in. “No,” he said, “No one is getting Dad. Dad is not coming to my stag party, even if it’s in a muggle limousine with muggle alcohol and muggle food.” Harry, the organizer of the night’s events, had indeed gotten muggle pizza and Chinese takeaway, as well as found the driver, who happened to be a muggle parent of a young witch whose case Hermione had worked on through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“Is it really a stag party if we’re two nights away?” Bill asked, munching on a slice of pepperoni pizza.

“We had your stag party two nights before your wedding, remember?” Charlie said, “It was Harry’s birthday the night before.”

“Oh right,” Bill responded, “I had forgotten.”

“Yes, and we didn’t bring Harry because he wasn’t of age yet,” said Percy.

“Also, because he looked like a specky fourteen-year-old and no one would have served him alcohol,” said Ron, smirking.

“Hey, I resent that!” Harry replied, flinging a fortune cookie at his youngest brother-in-law. Ron dodged.

“What do you know, Auror boy can still dodge even when drunk!” George chortled, “And we’re having my stag party two nights before because I am not showing up hungover to my own wedding.”

“Yet the rest of us have to show up tired and hungover to work tomorrow. It is a Tuesday, after all,” said Percy.

“Yeah, why are you getting married on a Thursday anyways? The rest of us had the decency to get married on a weekend,” Ron piped up.

“The rest of us also didn’t get our fiancée’s pregnant and need to take one of the only available days for the officiant,” said Harry.

“Well, that would have been impossible for you, right Potter? Given that you and my baby sister lived in perfect, pure chastity before your wedding and even now sleep in two different beds?” drawled Bill.

“If you believe that,” Harry responded, “You’re drunker than I thought.”

“If you’re discussing sex and my sister, you must be drunker than I thought, Potter,” Charlie said darkly.

“I don’t want to hear any of this,” said Ron.

“Hear, hear,” hiccupped Percy.

“What should we do now?” asked George, clapping his hands together.

“Get more pepperoni pizza,” said Bill.

“Drink more muggle alcohol,” said Charlie.

“Go home and go to bed,” said Percy.

“Fireworks!” said Ron.

“Fireworks it is!” cried George happily, “Driver, to Diagon Alley!”

“Uhhh, that’s near Charing Cross Road,” Harry put in helpfully.

“Fireworks!” chorused Ron and George.

* * *

February 23, 2004

“Hello Fred,” George said quietly, “Meet Fred.” He was holding a small baby, bundled up against the February cold. Angelina was back at their flat over the joke shop, enjoying an hour’s peace, while George brought their son to meet his namesake.

_Fred Gideon Weasley_

_April 1, 1978-May 2, 1998_

_Beloved son and brother_

_Mischief managed_

“He’s my son. Mine and Angelina’s. We got married. Told you she liked me best. How could she not? I’m smarter, handsomer, really, the full package. Truth be told, brother, I’m not really sure what I’m doing yet with little Fred. I haven’t dropped him. That’s probably good. I named him after my dead twin brother – that’s you – which Angelina doesn’t seem to mind but now I’m wondering if it’s not a little creepy. Do you mind? I hope not. Tough luck if you do, I’m not filling out more paperwork. Babies, it turns out, are a lot of paperwork.”

George stared down at the headstone. It had the emblem of the Order of the Phoenix, as all the resistance fighters did, with a mark underneath to show he had died in the final battle. Headstones like this were scattered up and down the country. There had been a hullabaloo when Xenophilius Lovegood had finally died of the damage done in Azkaban. Was he part of the resistance? Was he loyal? Did he deserve an emblem? He was buried in this graveyard too, but George didn’t feel like checking.

This was the legacy of Fred Gideon Weasley – an Order of Merlin, a war finally over, a living and grieving twin brother, a namesake nephew too young to understand, and a headstone in a cold graveyard outside Ottery St. Catchpole.


	5. Old English

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: some mentions of infant death/pregnancy loss

September 17, 2003

“Oh, excuse me!” Percy Weasley said as he collided with a short brunette witch exiting Dervish and Banges on the Hogsmeade High Street. He narrowly avoided knocking her over entirely, his arms wind-milling comically as he tried to catch the small packages flying from her arms.

“Oh. Oh! Oh dear,” the petite witch said with dismay as some of her packages hit the ground.

“My apologies, my apologies,” Percy said, stooping to pick up the packages. He tried to help her balance them in her arms again, but even more slid from the pile. “Uh, may I help you to wherever you’re going?”

She gave him a considering look. “Alright,” she said a little suspiciously, “It’s just up here.”

Percy followed her further up the high street, then down a short alley to a door marked “Buchanan Squib Placement Agency.” Percy froze for a moment, hoping he hadn’t made any insensitive comments during his brief acquaintance with the as-yet-unnamed woman, but breathed a quite sigh of relief when she tapped the doorknob with her wand and pushed the door open. A bell tinkled gently.

“You can just put them here,” she said, placing her own packages down on a small desk in the corner. Percy put his armful down. “And from whom do I have the pleasure?” the witch asked politely, holding out her hand.

“Percy Weasley,” Percy said, shaking the proffered limb. Her hand was small in his.

“Pleasure to meet you, I’m Audrey Edgecombe.”

“Do you work here, Miss Edgecombe?” Percy asked solicitously.

“Yes, I do,” she said, a slight wariness to her tone.

“I’ve never heard of the Buchanan Squib Placement Agency,” Percy said, “Do you work with the Ministry often?”

“No, we don’t,” Audrey Edgecombe replied, “That is, they did, and then during the war they had to close up shop, and when they reopened, they decided a bit more independence was necessary.”

Percy was surprised. “You, ah, haven’t found the Ministry to be supportive?”

“Oh, no, they’re fine. Better than before, according to my boss. But the agency wanted its own funding source, so they started soliciting donations,” she replied.

“I see,” Percy said. He was a little surprised at himself. Not for knocking into Miss Edgecombe or helping with her parcels – both of those incidents were fairly predictable. But for some reason he wanted to keep talking to her. He racked his brain for an excuse. It had been so long since he had wanted to talk to a woman just because she was a woman. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep you, but I work for the Ministry and now that I’ve heard of the Buchanan Squib Placement Agency I’d like to know more. Could I set up an appointment, Miss Edgecombe?”

She looked at him. “You may take me to dinner,” she said finally, her mouth quirking up in the corner, “And you may call me Audrey.” Percy stared at her. Dinner. Dinner? Audrey blushed, and started to open her mouth, but Percy cut her off.

“I would love to take you to dinner, Audrey,” he said, “The Three Broomsticks?”

“That’s fine,” she said, “Let me get my things.” It didn’t take her long to gather her cloak and purse, and they set off back towards the main part of Hogsmeade.

“What brings you to this part of the world today, Percy?” she asked as they walked.

“Well, I was on my way to look for a birthday present for my sister-in-law, Hermione…” The pair rounded the corner and their voices faded away.

* * *

March 13, 2004

Percy Weasley was tidying up his already-immaculate flat. The takeaway boxes were hidden in the trash, a bouquet of roses was in a vase on a side table, and the taper candles were lit on the table.

He had been dating Audrey Joy Edgecombe for almost five months. She was five years his junior – twenty-two going on twenty-three to his twenty-seven going on twenty-eight. She had been a Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, while he had been a Gryffindor, and had started her first year the year he had been Head Boy. She worked as a social worker with the Buchanan Squib Placement Agency, and he was the head of Broom Regulatory Control in the Department of Magical Transportation at the Ministry of Magic. They were different, but not too different.

Percy opened the door a few seconds after Audrey knocked. “Eager, are we?” she asked, coming into his flat. “Oh, Percy, this looks lovely.”

“I got you flowers,” Percy said, taking her bag and hanging it on the hook behind the door.

“They’re beautiful Percy,” Audrey said, “And the food smells delicious. Did you make it?”

“Ah, no,” Percy admitted, “I ordered in. But I’ve set out real plates.”

“You’re very sweet,” Audrey said, standing on tip-toe to kiss him. Percy fumbled awkwardly for a moment, then kissed her back.

“How was work?” Percy asked.

“Oh fine,” Audrey said, continuing further into the flat, “Will you show me around?”

“There’s not much to see,” Percy replied, “This is the lounge and through that door is the kitchen. Behind you through the hall is the bedroom and my study.”

“You have a study?” Audrey asked.

“It’s a second bedroom, but I use it as a study,” Percy said, walking over to the table. Audrey was looking through the photos on the mantle.

“Are these your nieces and nephews?”

“Two of the three, plus my brother-in-law’s godson. The oldest boy is Teddy – Harry’s godson – he’ll be six next month. Victoire is the blonde. She’ll be four just after that. And Dominique is the toddler – she’s eighteen months.”

“You said three?”

“Oh, yes, Freddie. He was born at the end of January, after that picture was taken.”

“Are they all in the same family?”

“Victoire and Dominique are my older brother’s, Bill, and his wife Fleur. She was the Beauxbatons champion during the Triwizard Tournament. Freddie is my brother George’s. His wife is Angelina. They got married shortly before we met.”

“Percy,” Audrey said sharply, “Who is this?” She had pulled a photograph down from the mantle. Percy froze. He hadn’t expected to do it quite like this.

“That is my wife. Penelope.”

Audrey turned around with tears in her eyes. “You’re married? You’re married! Percy!”

“No, no,” Percy said going over to her. He took a deep breath. “No,” he repeated more softly, “I’m not married. Penelope…Penny died. Three and a half years ago.”

“Percy…you didn’t tell me,” Audrey said. She still sounded hurt.

Percy took off his glasses and rubbed them, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No. No, I didn’t. I’m sorry, this wasn’t how I planned it. Will you come sit down?” Audrey sat next to him on the sofa but held herself slightly apart from him. She was still holding the photograph. “My wife’s name was Penelope Clearwater. You probably don’t remember her – she was one of the seventh year Ravenclaw prefects your first year. Anyways, we dated during our sixth and seventh years and got engaged summer of 1996, just after Voldemort’s return became public. Our wedding was scheduled for Christmas 1997, but she was a Muggleborn. I tried to smuggle her out of the country during the war. My eldest brother and sister-in-law were one of the refugee points for getting Muggleborns to France. But Penelope’s Portkey was intercepted, and she was taken to Azkaban. She spent seven months there during the war before the prison was liberated.” Percy paused.

“Did you marry then?” Audrey prompted.

“Yes, yes we did. We married at the end of that summer in 1998. It was a small, quiet wedding. Penelope’s health was very poor. We didn’t know how long she’d live. She was in and out of St. Mungo’s receiving treatment for the damage done in Azkaban. And on Valentine’s Day 2000, we got pregnant. Penelope and I were very happy. The baby was due in November. But she wasn’t strong enough. At the end of July, she had complications. She died August 2, 2000, along with our son, Patrick.”

“Oh Percy,” Audrey breathed, “I’m so sorry.”

Percy scrubbed at his face. “This wasn’t how I was going to tell you. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you after dinner. It was coincidence that you didn’t know, really. I only took off my wedding ring a few days before we met. I…I got tired of the questions.”

Audrey was quiet for a long time. Percy felt tears prickling at his eyes. He thought of the silver wedding bands tucked away in his dresser.

“Your son’s name was Patrick?” Audrey asked gently.

“Patrick Arthur,” Percy said, “Yes. After our fathers.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” Audrey said.

“Thank you,” Percy said quietly. They sat in silence for what felt like hours, even though the clock on the mantle only three minutes had gone by.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Audrey asked.

“I wasn’t sure how to…how to say it,” Percy said, absentmindedly rubbing his ring finger, “I’d only been on a date once since Penelope died, and that was a disaster. How soon was too soon? I didn’t know, and there was no one to ask. Maybe I should have announced it at that first dinner – ‘Yes, my name is Percy Weasley, and by the way my wife and child died three years ago.’ There isn’t a handbook for any of this.”

“I suppose not,” Audrey said, “But Percy, you should have told me before this. We’ve been dating five months – I’m not even sure how you managed to keep it from me. Have you been hiding it?”

“Not exactly,” Percy replied, scowling slightly, “Not really.”

“Does your family know about me?”

“No, they don’t – but Audrey, no, wait, that’s not just because of Penelope. My family – they’re intense. All my brothers – okay, except Charlie. And Fred, of course. But all the rest of my siblings are married, and Bill and George have kids. They aren’t really used to new people. From what my sister has said, it wasn’t easy for Fleur – that’s Bill’s wife – with the family when they were engaged.”

Audrey settled onto the couch slightly. “You have a large family, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Percy responded, “Large, and a little insular honestly. It’s easier that way. Cuts down on gawking at my brother-in-law–“

“Harry Potter,” Audrey interrupted, “I know.”

“Yes. And with Ginny’s Quidditch career, and we all went to Hogwarts and everyone else was in the Order. I don’t know. It was easier not to have new people.”

Audrey couldn’t help it – she paled a little. New people. She hadn’t fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. She’d been sixteen, a fifth year, evacuated to the far side of the lake and stuffed into nearly-forgotten, moldy bunkers which, according to Professor Binns, had dated from the Second War of Scottish Independence. She would be “new people” to the Weasley family.

Percy was watching her quietly. Finally, he said, “Do you want to stay to dinner?”

Audrey stood up and looked down at him. She didn’t have to look very far. He was tall, her once-married boyfriend. “Yes, I suppose so,” she said.

* * *

December 25, 2004

“GEORGE WEASLEY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY WAND?” an irate Molly Weasley shouted from the kitchen of the Burrow, clutching a rubber chicken.

“It’s behind your ear, Molly,” a slightly distracted Hermione Granger-Weasley said as she passed through with two tins of biscuits.

“Oh, hello dears,” Molly said, “Are Harry and Ginny with you?”

“Just behind us,” Ron said, “Or at least they were. Blimey, lots of stuff to carry with that baby!”

“‘That baby’ is your godson, James,” Hermione said, half reprovingly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron said with a wave of his hand.

“Hello, hello!” Ginny called from the hall.

“Is she here yet, is she here yet?” cried an excited six-year-old with purple hair.

“Teddy! Ted!” Harry called, “Remember what we talked about?” He and Ginny came into the already crowded kitchen carrying an overflowing changing bag and wailing, black-haired baby respectively.

“Oh, come to Nana!” Molly called, abandoning the potatoes and reaching out for her youngest grandchild. Ginny handed the baby over to her mother.

“Where’s the wine?” she asked Hermione.

“On the table, but Ginny don’t you think you should wait until –”

“He’s be crying for hours,” Harry said as Ginny made a beeline for the dining room table. They’d finally added on a proper dining room a few years after the war, although the old (and now too-small) dining table was still in the kitchen. James Sirius, the baby in question, was now happily gurgling in his grandmother’s arms. “Now Teddy,” Harry continued, crouching down, “What did we talk about?”

“How to be nice to Uncle Percy’s new girlfriend,” Teddy replied confidently.

“And what did that include?”

“Not knocking her over like a bowling pin.”

Any further conversation was cut off by Charlie’s chorus of “They’re here!” coming from the living room. Harry sighed, as half the adults, plus Teddy, went running for the living room.

“Act casual!” Ginny barked.

“Right, right!” said George, stopping in his tracks, “Angelina, where’s the baby?”

“In the cot upstairs, napping.”

“How can I be casual without the baby?”

“I don’t know, how did you manage it for the first twenty-four years of your life.”

George stared at her, mouth slightly agape, but was prevented from responding by the opening of the front door. Percy and a young woman stepped through.

“And this is the Burrow,” Percy said, glancing around and giving an awkward gesture with his hand.

For a moment, everyone just stared. Then Charlie barked, “Percy, close the door, it’s cold out!” and Arthur Weasley stepped forward.

“Hello, Percy,” he said calmly.

“Hello, Dad,” Percy said, “Dad, this is my girlfriend, Audrey Edgecombe. Audrey, this is my father, Arthur Weasley.”

“Mr. Weasley,” Audrey said politely, holding out her hand.

“Please, call me Arthur,” he replied, shaking it, “Why don’t you come in and meet the rest of the family.”

Introductions were made all around, and soon they were settling down at the long table in the dining room.

“Wait,” Molly said, halfway into her chair, “Who are we missing?” Everyone glanced around. Several places were indeed missing.

“Bill!” Charlie said, “Where are they?”

“Did they send an owl?”

“Are they in France?”

“Are they playing hide and seek?” proposed George.

“Well!” came a happy voice from the kitchen, “I can see who is really the overlooked one in this family!” Bill Weasley stepped out of the fireplace and around the doorway.

“Oh, you’re so late. Where are the girls?” Molly asked.

“At St. Mungo’s, admiring their new baby brother!” Bill said. Angelina and Hermione let out small squeals.

“Oh Bill! He’s here?” Molly said, hurrying over to her eldest, “But six weeks early! St. Mungo’s? Is he alright?”

“Just fine, just fine, born right before midnight. Fleur had to be transferred, but both mother and baby are fine. Gabrielle was already at Shell Cottage, so we just had her stay with the girls.” Bill accepted a small glass of firewhiskey from his father. “But I should get back, I just wanted to tell you all we’d miss lunch – not that you apparently noticed!”

“Oh Bill, a son,” Molly said, her eyes welling up with tears.

“Louis Pierre,” Bill said proudly, “Four pounds, fourteen ounces. Speaking of arrivals, is she here?”

The room erupted into giggles, and Percy just put his head in his hands.

* * *

June 14, 2006

“This is a stupid tradition,” groused Ron.

“It’s a tradition, don’t be a grump!” Charlie said, slapping him on the back.

“Who wants to go out and get drunk on a Wednesday?” Ron asked.

“Me,” said George and Harry in unison.

“We always have the stag party two nights before,” Bill said placatingly. The Weasley brothers – including Harry – were in a private room at the Leaky Cauldron. Percy, who was nearing thirty and, in any case, had already had a stag party once before, had declared himself “too old for shenanigans,” and his brothers diplomatically refrained from mentioning that his last stag party had been equally boring. Hermione had gone into the Muggle world to find expensive steaks, and Hannah Longbottom had laughingly agreed to prepare them instead of the pup’s usual fare. So the five redheads and one “specky, scrawny git” were enjoying well-cooked steaks and well-aged firewhiskey in comfortable privacy near Diagon Alley.

“How’s work, Perce?” Charlie asked.

“We really need to try and be more interesting,” said George.

“It’s good, Charlie,” Percy replied, ignoring his younger brother, “We finally wrapped up prosecution on that case a few months back.”

“That took literal years,” said Ron, leaning in.

“When did we start that Percy, spring of ’03?” asked Harry.

“I think so,” Percy replied, “But you all didn’t give it to us until fall.”

“Blimey, we’ve apologized!” chorused Harry and Ron in unison.

“Oi, does that mean you can finally tell us what it’s about?” George asked.

Ron and Harry looked at Percy, who shook his head. “Embargo ends next month.”

George frowned, “Bloody secretive, the lot of you.”

“Oh yeah, then what are you working on?” Bill asked.

“Plenty o’ stuff, oh venerable eldest brother of mine,” George replied with a grin, “But I’m afraid to reveal would be giving you advance notice.”

Bill eyed him warily, while Ron said cajolingly, “Come on give us a hint, then!”

“Well, we’ve got some very exciting developments in the romance and fertility department,” George said brightly.

“Oh, is that how you got Angelina pregnant?” Charlie snicked.

“Charles, Charles, you wound me. You think I would have to resort to such products on my lovely wife. Bill, here, might want to check his drink.”

“Oi!” exclaimed Bill, “I’ve already got three kids!”

“Speaking of kids,” George said smoothly, “How is our lovely brother’s soon-to-be-wife?”

“George!” replied Percy indignantly, “You make it sound criminal!”

“Well, she is only a tender lass of twenty-three –”

“Twenty-four!” protested Percy.

“While you are an aged old gentleman of thirty-one.”

“Twenty-nine!” said Percy.

“Hey now, watch what you say is ancient,” Bill chimed in at the same time.

“And I’m just curious how dear Perce is doing with a _younger_ woman,” said George. Ron and Harry snickered.

“You do realize Bill is six years older than his wife and I’m only five years older than Audrey!”

“Hey, whose side are you on?” asked Bill.

“Yeah, but Audrey is younger than Ginny,” said Ron teasingly.

“And a year behind her in school,” added Harry.

“For all we know,” Charlie sniggered, “You took points off her.”

“During her first year!” George concluded.

“You’re all terrible,” said Percy.

“True,” quipped Harry leaning back in his chair, “But at this point, you’re pretty much stuck with us.”

* * *

October 18, 2007

“Mum? Dad?” Percy called quietly out of the fireplace. The Burrow was dark, and the chickens were just beginning to putter about the yard in the early dawn. Percy got no response. He stepped into the kitchen, intending to walk up the stairs, but then remembered Charlie’s horror story a few months earlier of popping in for a “surprise” visit to the Burrow. He took out his want. “_Expecto patronum_,” he whispered quietly. A few moments later, he heard his parents door open.

“Percy?” his mother called out.

“In the kitchen!” he replied, starting for the stairs. He met his parents in the front hallway. “She’s here!” he said excitedly.

“She?” Molly asked, rubbing her eyes.

“My daughter. Our daughter. Mine and Audrey’s. She’s here!” Percy was crying. It was so different from last time. Last time his parents had met him at the hospital. A Healer who knew Bill in school had sent an owl, and Fleur had gone to fetch them. When they arrived, Bill was supporting a sobbing Percy. Penelope and Patrick were both dead. This time he’d left a peaceful house, a safely slumbering wife and child, watched over by a competent, reassuring midwife.

“Oh Percy,” his father said, hugging him. Percy had been the second Weasley child to become a parent. He’d spent nights up with his father, but they were different than Bill’s. Victoire had been a fussy baby, and Molly and Arthur had spent plenty of nights helping Bill or Fleur soothe her to sleep. With Percy, Arthur stayed up, drinking tea, sometimes saying nothing, often just listening to Percy ramble. They’d talked of the baby his parents had lost after Charlie. They’d talked of work. They’d talked of Azkaban and the horrible damage it had wrought.

“Do you want to meet her?” Percy asked, “Audrey says now is fine, says it’s okay.”

“Oh, Percy, my hair,” Molly said. Arthur laughed.

“Molly, she’s a baby.”

“Right,” she replied, beaming, “Oh Percy, a baby.”

“A healthy baby,” Percy had said, his eyes spilling over. He had known this would happen. Audrey had known too. He’d stayed strong throughout the pregnancy and birth, but before she had gone to sleep she’d given him that look, the one that said that she knew he needed to cry about his dead wife and child, that she didn’t blame him.

A few teary minutes later and the proud grandparents were following Percy through the fireplace. “We’ll just wait and let you check on them, make sure they’re ready for us,” his mum said, patting him on the arm. Percy had obediently trotted up the front stairs and found his wife sitting up in bed, nursing their daughter.

“Are they here?” Audrey asked, noting his wide smile and red-rimmed eyes, “She’s nearly finished.”

“Hello, darling girl,” Percy said, stooping to kiss his daughter, “Your grandparents are here to see you.”

“No kiss for me?” Audrey asked, and Percy bent to kiss her too. “She’s done now, I think,” she said, unlatching the baby, “Bring them up.”

Molly and Arthur Weasley entered a few minutes later, full of smiles and congratulations. Percy picked up his daughter and handed her to his mother. “Mum, Dad,” he said, “Meet your newest granddaughter, Molly.”


End file.
